Wicked Witches Guidebook
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Just for fun...I sent the boys on another crazy hunt. EArly years. Bro moments. Hurt Sam. Handsome, hero, skeeved-out Dean. A few bad words. Story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

WICKED

WITCHES

GUIDEBOOK

By: KAREN B.

Summary: Just the boys going on another crazy hunt. Time set: Early years.

Disclaimer: Not the owner…just the dreamer.

Thank you so much for your time in reading!

Sunshine even in rain, Karen

* * *

Sam creaked open his eyes. He couldn't see much through the haze of fog, and wasn't sure how long he'd been out cold. Everything was silent -- a damp chill lingering in the air. He shivered hard, this was no ordinary chill, the kind heat pouring from the Impala's vents could ward off. It was the chill of fear. He slowly glanced around, only hearing the plop, plop of water, only seeing strange, misshapen shadows. Damn, he was zonked, his trusted sense of direction had turned anomaly. Sam's left hand pressed to the soft ground and he pushed, scooting himself backward with a grunt. There wasn't much room, but he'd managed to sit up straighter, craning his head upward.

Great. He couldn't see a thing.

"Uhnnng," Sam groaned, his small world spinning with the effort to wiggle his toes and try to stand. A stream of warmth ebbed slowly down the left side of his face. "Ah." He forced himself to keep his eyes open, still seeing only cobalt darkness. Sam reached with his right hand to his jacket pocket. "Gahh!" he cried out.

Pushing his head further against the wall, he slammed his eyes shut trying to escape the sudden pain of what he thought to be a broken bone in his right arm. Worse, was the feeling the walls were closing in on him. He hated cramped quarters. Hated that trapped, suffocating feeling. Did he say 'hate'? He meant loathed, despised, detested -- okay fine -- he was scared to death. Everybody had a thing, a phobia, an irrational fear. Dean had a thing about spiders. Bobby, bats. Caleb, rats. His dad, well, okay, the great John Winchester was the one exception to the 'everybody had a thing' rule. Sam figured that was because his dad didn't fear, fear. He lived side-by-side with fear, and when fear got in his way -- he devoured it -- like flippin' Wheaties, the breakfast of champions.

Sam Winchester didn't have 'a thing,' he had two things. Thing one -- creepy clowns. Thing two -- he was sitting in it. A dark, cramped, tight, nearly airless accommodation. Man, claustrophobia sucked.

It first started when Dean had stuffed and locked him in his fifth grade gym locker -- another prank war gone way south. By the time Dean came back to let Sam out, he'd been exhausted from screaming and was shaking like the Leaning Tower in Piza during an earthquake. Then there was the time he and Dean had been hunting a Windigo. He and Sam had gotten separated, while searching the creatures lair. Sam's flashlight had died out, and he'd spent hours crawling through tiny crevices and cracks, going in circles through the everlasting darkness before he finally found his way out. The worst time, however, was when Sam had gotten trapped inside a casket trying to salt and burn a vengeful spirit that wouldn't go out of this life quietly. Sam had gotten pinned inside the coffin, lying on top the decaying dead person's jumbled bones, her long wiry hair forever poking him in the ear. Dean had pried him out fairly quickly, but just the forty minutes he'd spent locked inside the cramped, dark box made him feel scared and alone. He never wanted to feel that way again, yet, here he was -- scared and alone.

Sam's hands quivered as he wiggled around in the smelly slop of the pit. It was nearly impossible to maneuver in the tiny confines, not to mention the hole in the ground smelled like a sewer. The unpleasant vapors made Sam's eyes tear and his breath sputter. His heart beat too fast against his chest, and Sam swallowed down the bit of bile that had rushed into his mouth. It took a moment of breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to gain composure. Sam cradled his broken arm in his lap, searching his jacket pockets, via his left hand. Great. No flashlight, no cell phone, no weapon. Luckily, he'd come across a box of matches, if he wanted to call that luck. The matchbook was soggy from the dampness. Anyone could light a match, but lighting a soggy match -- one-handed -- not so much. That was a skill Dean had taught him years ago. At the age of six, Sam thought the trick was the coolest thing ever. By the age of twelve, he'd learned that the coolest thing ever -- could just save your life. Swiping the match tip across the striking pad, Sam was happy to see he actually had gotten lucky as the match lit.

He leaned forward, holding the flame up. What the hell? Had he been turned into a gopher? How the hell? Even in the fragile light, Sam could see that the muddy, cylinder-shaped well he was trapped in was obviously deep. Sam couldn't see the opening above, and was completely unsure as to how far he'd dropped. There was nowhere to go. The walls were unstable, mud and rock plopping around him at the slightest movements. Sam lowered the match to look at his injured arm.

He groaned in pain and confusion at the sight of torn skin and jagged bone protruding through a hole torn in his jacket. The area was completely encrusted with dried, sticky stuff that looked a lot like strawberry jam, but what Sam knew was really blood.

"Great, ahhh." He waggled his hand as the match flame went out, burning the tip of his finger.

Sam tried to light another match -- kaput -- the match blew out as fast as he had struck the pad. He tried three more times with the same results.

"Damnit!" There went his luck. The air was too thin, and everything seemed to cartwheel around him. He tried to get his bearings, but panic was setting in. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe and Sam sucked in one shallow breath after another. Broken arm, cracked head. "Super great," he panted. "What a mess." Not only was he a mess, he was missing something. Something important. Something he couldn't quite recollect.

More greatness.

He floundered, trying to get back to his feet, but just breathing was taking up all his energy hiking the pain up ten degrees, and he sank back down. His good hand gripped at the soil under him in frustration, mud squishing between his fingers. Come to think of it, he wasn't missing something, he was missing someone.

"Dean," he whispered.

Sam struggled to concentrate. He closed his eyes to think. When was the last time he'd seen his wayward brother?

Memories slowly moved back into his hurting head, trickling in like the soupy mud seeping into his jeans. They were on a hunt. Their prim objective, patrol the area -- tactical recon. Track the witch to her hovel, map out her hideaway. Try to make sense of why three other hunters had torched and melted the bitch, yet she continued to reek havoc. Two of the hunters had been turned into tasty tidbits, the other, barely crawling away to tell the tale. Dean had gone ballistic. No friggin', sticky fingered, crusty booger, frog-eyed, scabby, jacked-up witch was going to be allowed to live.

Sam had a simple theory. Jacked-up witch, equaled, jacked-up weapon. He'd designed and built a homemade, high-powered flamethrower, combined with a special herbal brew of Bobby's, hoping to finish the tricky, old crone's wickedness off once and for all. He and Dean had spent the better part of the day marching through the gloomy forest, the scent of pine heavy in the air. The long hike brought nothing but the pain of blister filled feet, and the ache of empty stomachs. The last hour had been the gloomiest; the shadowed woods seemed almost demonic, but they'd trudged onward. By day, the heavily forested region was dim and stone-dreary. By nightfall, the tangle of trees had turned nearly midnight-black and Sam had sworn the moon and stars, he knew to be out tonight, must have fallen from the sky.

Sam followed closely behind Dean, stepping out of the shadows of the thick woodland into a brush-filled meadow. The darkness morphed into bright moonlight as they moved quietly under the full moon through the tall grass. Avoiding prickly bushes, they waved their flashlight beams back and forth across the ground. Everything seemed dead silent. Only the sound of one boot fall after another, tromping down the soggy grassland, could be heard. Sam shivered as a chill ran up and down the length of his spine. An overpowering scent, or should he say stench, drifted on a breeze making Sam's nose twitch and wrinkle.

"Christ, Sam." Dean hiked his duffel higher up on his shoulder, and glanced back. "With the high price of gas you'd think we could figure out a way to utilize your…your…" Dean faced forward. "Your disorder," Dean choked. "Man! You reek."

"Fox smells his own hole first, Dean." Sam sucked in a breath and held the air in, something really did smell bad.

"You're the one who stepped on a frog," Dean shot back.

"You stepped on a…a…" Sam stuttered. "On a duck."

"Whoever denied it… supplied it," Dean panted.

"Whoever spoke last… set off the blast."

Sam waited for Dean's comeback, but none came. "Dean?" No response. "Hey." Dean kept walking, not saying a word. "You not talking to me or what?" Sam stopped in his tracks. "Crap!" He'd been the one to speak last. Dean always, somehow -- forever managed to get the last word in -- even without getting the last word in. "Uggg," Sam gagged, the stench was stronger now and had to be in the top five worst smells he'd smelled -- ever. Glancing to his right, Sam shined his flashlight, its high beam landing on a giant-sized mound of…of…. "Ah, man." He blew out a breath. "Dean." Sam stood straighter, his tone serious.

Dean turned, his beam falling to the spot Sam's flashlight illuminated. "Ew, gross." Dean swallowed. "What is that?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean beat him to the punch.

"Could be pheasant or duck, rabbit…maybe squirrel." Dean took a whiff, eyeing the rancid pile. "Definitely not deer or bear. Possibly…"

"Biodegradation of organic matter." Sam shook his head in disgust, not able to suck in a descent breath or take his eyes off the gore.

Raw flesh, appendages, fur, hair, hearts, bones and skulls -- all shapes, all sizes, all species -- mashed together and collected into one sloppy pile. The haunting scene seemed to increase the silence of the night, and the stench decreased any thoughts Sam may have had of eating in the next three days, at least. The stench of death was heavy, and the sound of buzzing flies feeding on the rotting flesh made Sam reflexively gag

"Come again?" Dean, also, gagging.

"It's a compost pile… of dead stuff." Sam explained, crinkling his nose. "Reduce, reuse, recycle. Poor souls." He glanced at Dean. "She's cannibalistic, remember?" Sam flashed his light around the area.

"Delightful, thanks for the recap my Grimm Brother." Dean made a lip-smacking sound. "I'll be, Hansel, you be, Gidget," he growled.

"Gretel," Sam corrected. "Why do I always have to play the female role?" Sam huffed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

"Your hair's longer," Dean laughed.

"Duu…ude." Sam paused. Aw forget it, he'd never beat Dean at this game. "Fine. Whatever. So, what do you think, Han? You think she's still around?" Sam waved a hand at the rotting pile. "Nothing here looks too fresh."

"I'm thinking that skeeve witch has had her last meal." Dean drew his handheld, homemade flamethrower.

Sam drew his flamethrower as well. The weapons were the size of a small handgun and didn't hold a lot of fuel. They each had one refill, but Sam didn't think it would take much of the supped-up flame to kill the witch.

"Just stay close, Ginger, and follow the trail of breadcrumbs," Dean sniffed. "Damn that bio…bio-dork…bio-deck…damn that shit's past its sell-by-date."

"Biodegradation, and it's Gretel, Dean," Sam puffed out in annoyance swallowing down the lump of sickness forming in the back of his throat.

"Just like a girl." Dean dropped a hand to Sam's shoulder. "Always letting a guy know when he's wrong. Ha! Don't upchuck, princess buttercup." Joking set aside, his hand fell away from Sam's shoulder. "Let's just keep moving." Dean continued on point.

Sam swallowed, forcing the lump of sickness back into his stomach, the bulge going down about as well as a package of raw hamburger. He stepped carefully around the hellish pile, following close behind Dean. They moved cautiously through the open field; the tall grass brushing against Sam's long legs, dampening his jeans.

"So you think this flamethrower jazz is going to Flambé dè bitch?" Dean asked, comically.

"Think that dish is illegal in most states, Dean," Sam said, deciding Dean had taken point long enough, and moving to pass his brother. Shadows swam around them, and the scent of the compost pile seemed to follow along. Sam's eyes had adjusted to the full moon's light and he'd long since turned off his flashlight, Dean shortly following suit. The wind kicked up, blowing a cobweb into Sam's face. He faltered, quickly swiping the invisible thread away. Fireflies blinked off and on, normally a beautiful sight to Sam, but right now they looked more like glowing eyes peering at them through the dark.

Dean moved up next to Sam, the back of his hand thumping against Sam's chest. "Bro."

"What?" Sam stopped, standing motionless.

"That's what." Dean tipped his chin, gesturing toward a grove of tall, thick needled pine trees. The stiff outstretched boughs of the pines sent creepy shadows swirling in shades of gray across the ramshackle cabin. The small house was badly deteriorating and nearly hidden away by crawling ivy.

They both stood silent and uneasy, eyeing the cabin. Witches were tricky bitches, unpredictably taking potshots when least expected. Sam and Dean waited for a sign, watched for the smallest of movements. Listened for the slightest of sounds -- nothing.

"Huh," Dean, interpreted the silence.

"Abandoned gingerbread cottage?" Sam muttered, studying the open door as it swayed eerily on squeaking hinges.

"What you say, Sammy, want to go nibble on her house?" Without waiting for an answer, Dean led the way.

"You'll make a meal out of anything… won't you?" Sam followed.

"It's Winchester law, Sam. If it smells good..." Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Eat it."

"You're sick, man."

As they got closer to the cottage, Sam made sure to creep silently, watching boot placement, a talent their dad possessed and had passed down to both he and Dean. Their father was a solider. He'd raised Sam and Dean as part of his army, trained them as men before they were even tall enough to reach the kitchen sink. All their innocence had been lost years ago in flames of crimson red, when their mother was pinned to a ceiling and burned to death. The runoff of her blood would never be washed clean -- even if they ever did find the thing that killed her. The thought of his mom dying that way always made Sam's stomach lurch.

Dean flanked the left side of the open doorway, and mouthed, 'Let's do it'.

Sam nodded, flanking the right. He peered into Dean's face, a face that always appeared cool and calm no matter what they were up against. Weapons at the ready, Dean nodded reassuringly. Sam nodded in return as they entered the dark cabin in tandem and froze.

To stay alive in combat a solider understood he had to be alert, use sight and sound, sense the warning signals when you couldn't see or hear. John Winchester, ever the voice in Sam's ears, Dean's too, Sam was certain.

Sam was so attuned to his surroundings he could hear the whisper of Dean's breathing, could hear his brother's unspoken thoughts. The wind slipped in and out of a few holes in the crumbling cabin walls. Sam's gaze roamed the small house, his sight glued to the odd play of shadows. Torn and tattered curtains ghosted around a broken window, the smell of mold and decay filling the air. It appeared no one had lived here for years. A few pain staking minutes ticked by before both boys exchanged their weapons for flashlights.

Their bright beams bounced and flitted around the room, spotlighting an overturned table, broken chairs, a cast iron stove, empty pot and spoon still perched on top as if someone had stopped in the middle of cooking. Sam cringed, remembering the pile of decay. His eyes scanned the shelves lining the walls full of dusty glass jars. He shined his light on a few, examining the contents.

"Gross." Sam rattled off the contents. "Hairy spider legs, crow's beaks, headless bats, pig's eyeballs…" He turned to Dean and smiled slyly. "Still want to nibble, dude?" Sam walked to the shelf and picked up what looked like a wine bottle. He dusted the glass off to read the label. "Can wash all that nibbling down with some rat's blood."

"Delicious." Dean's normally strong voice sounded tight with disgust. "Damn' witches, I hate being skeeved out."

"Dean…" Sam put the bottle back shining his light toward the back of the cabin. "You think she's still creepin' around somewhere?"

"Shh!"

Sam turned and narrowed his eyes, surprised when he wasn't greeted by the calm cool he was so used to seeing. In fact, all expression had been erased from Dean's face.

"Dean, I was just kidding about the rat's blood, stop wigging out."

"Sam, shut up, some-thing's off," Dean murmured.

There came a hissing sound, like cold water splashing over hot rock as the cabin filled with steamy vapors.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Dean swore. "Sammy, stay close."

Sam moved backward until he bumped into Dean. They stood back-to-back, boot heel - to- boot heel in the center of the room, flashlights stowed, flamethrowers at the ready.

"See anything?" Sam asked, scanning the room, desperate to catch sight of the witch through the twirl of murkiness.

"No. You?"

"No…just fog and…" A hunched over, female figure suddenly manifested before Sam. Even through the vaporous mist, he could tell she was centuries old with bumpy, toad-like skin, green glowing eyes, and black dreadlocks that draped well past her hips. "Witch!" Sam took aim.

"Make that two." Dean's shoulder blades pushed further against Sam's and said, "Dreadlocks, glowing green eyes, bumpy…"

"Toad skin," Sam finished. "Twins." He raised his flamethrower higher.

"Two's… too much crazy for me, Sam, fire!"

On Dean's order Sam pulled the trigger sending a stream of fire straight into the witch, keenly aware of Dean, still hard-pressed against his back and doing the same. The room lit hot-orange and Sam blew a hole straight through the witch. She didn't so much as flinch, and the old cabin -- that should have burst into flames, like a racked pile of dead leaves -- remained unsinged.

"Uh, Dean…" Sam stared in disbelief at the unharmed witch, now chanting in a language Sam didn't comprehend.

"Let me guess?" Dean shifted. "Skeeve bitch is still on the warpath."

"No flambé, today."

"Cranky bitches and geeky poets -- so not my thing!"

The witch before Sam raised a crooked finger toward him, but before he could pull the trigger he was torn away from Dean's back and launched across the room. With a heavy thock, Sam hit a shelf, glass jars breaking and shattering as he sprawled to the floor.

"Sam!"

Glass crunched beneath Sam's weight as he rolled through the broken shards trying desperate to stand, to find his weapon, to help Dean. He wasn't coordinated enough, his vision spiraling. Invisible hands lifted him up from the floor and sent him flying -- Wham-O -- Sam bounced around the cabin like a Super Ball.

"Gah!" The air was forced from Sam's lungs when he was thrown against a wall and stuck there, like a pesky fly to flypaper. "Deeaa…ahhhh!" He struggled to free himself, lifting his head an inch or two, only to have his skull kicked back against the cabin wall. "Ah! Dean!" Sam managed to roll his head to one side. The fog had disappeared and the room lit hot orange, once again allowing him to see Dean clearly.

"You sleazy, curbside bitch!" Dean yelled in rage. "Now that's a fire!" He bellowed, currently armed with both flamethrowers, one gripped tight in each hand.

Dean kept the double stream of fire steadily blasting into the witch's chest. With every step Dean took toward her, she was forced a step backward, disappearing and reappearing. The increased, mass effect of firepower seemed to be too much for the old witch. Dean was a bundle of trigger-happy energy, and Sam could see the head-chopping anger in his brother's eyes. The witch before Dean screeched and wailed, flames continuing to hammer into her chest.

"Sam…" Dean spared him a quick look. "Hold on," he said, his voice raw, his aim never wavering.

The witch before Sam suddenly stopped chanting and screeched, motioning through the air at Sam with her crooked finger. "Nuuuu!" Sam cried out at the sudden burning sensation. She hadn't touched him but Sam felt the pain, like a single sharp claw racking from the corner of his right eye and slicing all the way down his cheek. "Ahhh!" A warm ooze welled up out of what Sam knew to be a deep cut and drizzled down his neck. He was lifted away from the wall, only to be slammed cruelly back, repeatedly.

Sam struggled dizzily, but the compressed pressure on his chest cutoff his air supply.

"Get away from him!"

Sam was peeled away from the wall, yet again, this time sent headfirst crashing into something rock solid.

"Shit! Fuck! Sa-a-a-am! Sammy!"

Sam tried to call out to…to…he forgot the important name, choking up a little bit of bile instead as his head spun round like the hands of a runaway clock.

Sight and sound disappeared in a big blowout of flame, and fog, then darkness. Sam became a product of the whirling chaos. Gravity seemed a thing of the past. He wasn't sure what was happening, but whatever was happening couldn't be good. His head emptied, only full of blackness and aloneness -- fear and pain

TBC…..


	2. Chapter 2

WICKED

WITCHES

GUIDEBOOK

Chapter two

* * *

"…am!"

Sam didn't want to open his eyes, but something had bullied him awake.

"…ammy! Y'…d'n there? …nswer me!"

Sam frowned in confusion, tilting his head upward. He tried to make his eyes go as wide as they could go, but still he couldn't see well. His breath snagged in his throat. Things were dark and cold, and he was dripping wet. Sam's heart began pounding in his throat and his eyes threatened to flutter closed.

He shivered. "Nuuu," he whimpered, fingers searching. Searching for what? Cold mud? He seemed to be packed in the ooze, his clothes sticking to his skin, like, well, like skin. Pain flared in his head and right arm, and this time he had no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut -- panting -- hardly able to take in a decent breath.

"Sam!"

"Wha'?" Sam shook his head and blinked his eyes back open. He couldn't remember what had happened. His mental awareness seemed to be wandering a darkened, narrow hallway. The very last thing he'd remembered was…was…

"Ehhh." Another whimper escaped as he dredged up the image of being pinned by witch number one, helpless against the cabin wall, her crooked finger alone, slicing his cheek open. He'd watched helplessly as Dean tried to flambé witch number two, without backup. "Uhhh." Sam tried to maneuver in the small confines -- the witch's cold storage -- he guessed. He didn't know how long he'd been down here. All he knew was, he was ready to get out. He was snuggled in tight, like a grave bed. Panic continued to gather in his chest. Don't panic. Don't panic -- easier said. "Mmmmm," he groaned his discomfort. The more he slithered about in the mud, the more he did panic. He was drenched in sweat and mud, about to pass out from lack of oxygen -- so not good.

"Sammy!" A wide beam of light ran back and forth across the muddy floor, but it was the quaver in the voice calling his name from above that slammed Sam's mental awareness out of the narrow, dark hallway.

Dean would never leave him alone, in the dark -- not after the school locker incident, anyway. He'd felt guilty for weeks afterwards, catering to Sam's every whim to make up for the prank.

"Sam! Damn it! Talk to me, man!"

His brother was here, Sam realized. Calling to him. Afraid for him. Sam pulled air in and pushed air out, wrestling with panic the way a crazy man would wrestle with a straight-jacket. He called to Dean, but the word came as hardly a whisper.

Sam took in a steadying gulp of air, concentrating on changing his breathing." D…Deeean," he groaned his brother's name.

"Sam! Thank God!" Dean's excited voice ricocheted down the shaft. "You okay? You hurt?"

"Deee...aaahhh." Sam tried to suck more air into his lungs.

"Hold on. I'm coming down." The flashlight's beam disappeared.

"N'... don't." Sam wiggled in the small confines. "Nu' 'nough room."

There came several long moments of silence, and Sam couldn't help but panic -- again. Dean was topside, still without backup. Sam hooked the fingers of his left hand into the wall of the soft mud and began to claw. Lighting a match one-handed he could do, clawing his way out a deep, dark pit one-handed -- not so much. But Sam was bulldogged and tried anyway. Desperate to pull himself to his feet, climb out of the hole, and get to his brother. His fingers slipped through the pudding-like ooze, getting him nowhere. Mud bombs detonated around him, and he was scared, but not for himself, claustrophobia forgotten. He was scared for Dean. For all he knew the witches were hurling his brother headfirst into a boiling pot, or chopping him into bits and adding him to their compost pile. The thought made a huge wave of nausea roll over him.

"De..." Sam coughed and gagged at the same time. "Dean." His fingers remained clinging to the soupy wall, unable to do a damn thing. Above he could hear the scuffle of feet, and more mud bombs smashed down around him. Sam took in a deep breath and yelled, "Hey! Where are you?"

"On the job, where else? Damn yapping, foo-foo princess, chihuahua." Sixty seconds later, Dean yelled, "Tossing a rope. Heads up!"

A looped rope dangled in front of Sam. He stared at the cord, wanting to grab on, but the straight-jacket was back clinging tighter to him, and he swore he couldn't move a thing, including his lungs.

"Sam, grab on," Dean ordered from above.

Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Trying." His legs were rubberized and his hooked fingers twitched in the mud, but that was all the movement he could afford. Sizzling, hot fire shot up his right arm stealing what little air he had left in his lungs.

Panicking was not good. Panicking was dangerous. Panicking was the one thing, the first thing, their father had taught them 'not' to do. Sam fought to gain control, but his phobia was a cruel and hungry beast that wouldn't release the vice-like grip it had regained.

"Sam? You're in the damn bitches root-cellar, now let's move!"

"Can't," Sam whispered in shame.

"What are you doing down there?"

Sam's hand slipped from his worthless hold of the soupy wall. He ran his shaking hand down his face and smearing more mud.

"Dude!" The flashlight's beam was back. "It's not a ketchup and spaghetti dinner I'm offering you, it's a friggin' rope! Now grab the freak on!" Dean bellowed.

Sam titled his head, staring up the dark shaft, working his lips but no sound came out.

The rope swung closer to his face. "Sam, we're sitting ducks here. Need you to help me out, kiddo." Dean's voice trailed down the dark pit, soft and caring. "I know it hurts and it's hard to breathe, but you have to reach for the rope," Dean said, somehow knowing exactly what was going on.

Sam shuddered hard, eyeing the rope in front of him.

"Sam! Just reach up." It sounded simple enough, but Sam couldn't move. "It's the only way out of this predicament." Came Dean's surefire voice. "Come on, pal, that's no gym-locker you're stuffed in." A pause. "You're pansy ass better take that rope or you will find yourself stuffed somewhere dark and small for a whole friggin' week," Dean threatened.

Sam was close to passing out, but he knew Dean needed him. His crude threat alone told him that. He swallowed the panic in his throat and reached up one-handed for the rope that dangled and bopped him in the face. He got his uninjured arm through the loop and over his head.

"Bro, you ready?"

"K'" Sam gave the rope a weak tug.

Without another moments pause the rope drew tight, hefting his weight upward. Sam's legs dangled long and gangly, his broken right arm slack and useless at his side.

Halfway up he heard Dean curse, and Sam dropped a few feet back down.

"Uggh!" Sam cried out, trying to dig the tips of his boots into the soft muddy walls to keep from falling further.

"I got you." The rope took up slack.

"You sure?" Sam craned his head upward. H

His answer came quick, in the form of a tug as he started to be pulled back upward. "Sam…" Dean panted from above. "Trust me."

Sam smiled, knowing Dean was on the other end of the rope tugging, straining and fighting gravity. Dean wouldn't let him fall. Dean wouldn't leave him in the dark -- ever again.

Slow rise after slow rise, Sam finally saw Dean standing near the rim of the pit. "There you are." Dean bent down and reached out over Sam, grabbing hold of his waistband. "That's it. Easy now, boy," he grunted, his voice sounding far away.

Sam was vaguely aware of being belly-dragged up and over the edge of the hole, before everything pinpricked and he blacked out.

* * *

"Sam, you coming around?" A warm, flat palm tapped against his cheek. "Sam." The voice called again through a cloud of pain.

"N…no." Sam's head throbbed, so did his arm.

"Sure you are, bro." Everything was a jumbled mess. Sam crinkled his nose and took in a deep cleansing breath as the hand continued to gently pat at his cheek. "Sam! Wake the hell up!

"Not the boss 'f me."

"I am so the boss of you." The gentle cheek tapping turned into more of a hard slap.

"Stop it." Sam tried to scramble away from the hand, the panic he'd swallowed coming back. "Where'm I?"

"Why don't you open your eyes, whiz kid, and find out!"

Sam's eyes scarcely slit open, only to spin up into his head. "Ou--out. G-get me ou--" he gasped.

"Hey, hey …it's all right, I'm here now." A hand cupped his shoulder and squeezed hard. "You're out, Sam. "Be calm." Sam was yanked into someone's lap and held close. "Breathe, man, breathe."

Sam drew in a deep breath, the comforting whiff of citrus combined with cloves and nutmeg -- Giorgio Armani. Well, a knock-off of the expensive cologne, anyway, his brother's favorite aftershave.

"D'n." He opened his eyes not taking his sight off the face waffling above him.

"Come on, Sam." Dean knuckle rubbed his chest. "Breathe in."

"I am breathe…" Sam choked. "In. _I..._" He tried to sit up. "I'm fr-freezing," he said.

"Smell, too." This time Dean's laugh was full bodied. "Sam, if I told you once, I've told you a million times, bro….watch that first step…it's a doozey. What the hell was the bitch's point, dropping your ass down there anyway?"

"Didn't ask." Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook uncontrollably. "Sorry, panicked. Too small…couldn't…"

"It's okay. I get it. Little Sammy fell in the well."

Sam drew in a breath, "Thanks, Lassie." He couldn't help but give a small chuckle, able to breathe a little better. "The witch?" Sam blinked his eyes open. He was lying on his back, looking up at Dean.

"Which, witch?" Dean smiled, hovering lower over him, swiping Sam's mud-soaked hair off his forehead.

"The ugly one." Sam sank back further against Dean, appreciating the safety he always found there.

"Dude, they were both ass-ugly." Dean gently pulled at the torn material of Sam's jacket.

"It's broken," Sam cringed, getting a better look at the exposed bone popping up through his flesh.

"Don't need x-ray vision to know that, huh?" Dean looked up.

"No." Sam shut his eyes. "Heard a snap…" He grit his teeth when Dean touched along the torn tissue. "When I hit muddy bottom." He forced his eyes back open.

"I bet." Dean winced. "Hold…"

"Ewww," Sam moaned.

"Hold-on-easy, pal." Dean patted down his jacket, obviously searching for something. "I'll do what I can. Bitches purse snatched the duffel, scattered our supplies. I don't have a damn thing to patch you up with here, Sam, need to get you back to the motel."

"Probably a good plan," Sam muttered.

"We're going to have to do this the hard way, bro," Dean informed,sadly.

"I like the medium way better."

"I know you do." Dean's eyes were soft with sympathy. "Think you can hold that arm still, okay?"

Sam nodded halfheartedly, glancing around.

"Serious, Dean…d'you get 'em?"

"Wicked witch number one is dead." Dean gently picked up Sam's injured arm.

"Jesuuuu....crap!" Sam violently jerked, biting into his lower lip.

"Got her with the flamethrower," Dean announced proudly, maneuvering the broken limb against Sam's chest. "Your bitch-witch is still zooming around on her broomstick somewhere, I assume." Dean raised his brow in question.

"Bet the Impala, she's not far-off," Sam muttered, using his good hand to cradle his brokn arm to his chest still glancing around nervously.

"Samantha, leave my baby out of this," Dean snapped. "Can you sit up?"

Sam worked his jaw, letting Dean ease him to sitting and blinking away the black spots that danced in front of his eyes.

"Ready to find your feet?" Dean questioned.

Sam briefly glanced down, spying the coil of rope laying near his feet on the ground. "Where'd you find the rope?" He asked, stalling to gain better focus.

"Hanging around." Dean frowned. "Least of our worries, bro. You done stalling?" He gave knowing nod.

Sam braced himself. "Go on."

"Take a breath and count to twenty, backwards," Dean ordered.

"Dean, I don't need…" Dean drug Sam to standing. "Gahhhh," Sam hissed in through gritted teeth.

"Sorry, man." Dean curved an arm around Sam's waist and tugged him to his side.

"Uhhhh." Sam struggled to find his balance, trying not to joggle his broken arm. "Fucking witches, I hate them!"

"That's the baby brother I know and love. Ready to walk?"

Sam swallowed unable to answer. His heart was pounding in his head, his lungs burned, and double vision made him wobble.

"Sammy?"

"Head's spinning, like clothes in a washing machine."

"Good fun, huh?"

"The funnest." Sam winced.

The wind groaned through the trees bringing the faint aroma of rotting flesh. Gourmet cooks, the witches were not. Sam felt dizzy watching patchy shadows move, helter-skelter all around. His skin prickled and he shivered badly. He swore he could feel eyes racking over them, and not the Innocent glowing eyes of fireflies. More like, they were a couple of thick and juicy filet mignons just begging to be seasoned and grilled. "We have to get out of here." He glanced at Dean. "Now." Sam's head dipped once.

Dean lifted Sam's chin, brushing strands of hair that were sticking to the drying, bloody gash running down the length of Sam's cheek.

"Want me to carry…"

"I can walk." Sam put action to word taking a few shuffling steps.

"Uh-huh," Dean murmured, his tone disbelieving as he helped Sam along.

Sam closed his eyes, letting Dean lead the way. Something snake-like was curling around his stomach and he only hoped it didn't slither up his throat and out his mouth.

"Sa-a-a-a-m." Dean drug out his name. "You have that face."

"What face?"

"The, 'I'm about to puke, but I don't want to tell Dean', face."

"Not going to puke, Dean."

"What'd you eat this morning?" Dean asked, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

"Little bit of everything," Sam grimaced.

"Flounder, Oysters…vanilla ice cream, all mixed together and drizzled with maple syrup."

"Dude." Sam warned, swallowing thickly.

"Well, if that didn't make you throw up on me, nothing will," Dean pronounced tartly.

"Not going to throw up on you, Dean." Sam took a couple more uncoordinated steps

"Good," Dean said. "Because you remember what happens to you when you throw up on me, right, Sam?"

"Severe bodily injury." Sam kneaded his fingers into Dean's jacket hoping to keep upright. "Just…keep me walking, Dean, okay."

"Okay," Dean agreed, increasing his hold as they moved along.

TBC…


	3. Final chapter

WICKED

WITCHES

GUIDEBOOK

FINAL CHAPTER

Special acknowledgement: Thank you to the folks over at the E/O 100-word drabble challenge. This story was born from a couple drabbles I did over there. It's amazing how a few words can spark a fire, and how trimming words can, in my minds eye, make an image clearer. Thanks guys!

Sunshine,

Karen

* * *

The silence of the night coupled with the lingering scent of the compost pile, reminded Sam there still was one witch left. Sam huddled close to Dean as they made their way back across the field. The only thing they could do now, was to get back to the car, their motel. Recoordinate their efforts, allow Dean to swab and stitch his wounds.

"Motel?" Sam asked, woozily.

"Hospital, man. That's a compound fracture you got going on there."

The thought of the dreaded hospital made Sam's stomach roll. His eyes fluttered, and he momentarily lost his footing, his head lolling to one side.

"Sam?" Dean pulled Sam's arm more securely across his neck and clutched tighter around his waist.

"Still walking," Sam said, feeling drunk and uncoordinated, gathering his feet and taking a couple steady steps.

"Thank you, captain obvious," Dean said softly, glancing over.

The trickle of blood Sam felt slipping down his cheek and arm made his stomach spasm, but he fought the need to vomit. Sweat rolled down his face and Sam panted out of breath. Dean started jabbering about the music he listened obvious attempt to distract him, yet both hunters stood on high alert, aware of everything around them. Countless stars shown bright enough to light there path, but still didn't help Sam to see beyond the twisted, darkness that surrounded them. Once again, Sam tripped over his own feet and lurched sideways.

"Hey." Dean stopped and grasped him by the shoulders.

"What?" Sam's eyes narrowed.

"We need a break." Dean fumbled the straps of both flamethrowers. Slipping them off his shoulder, he laid the weapons to the ground within reach, next to a thorny bush.

"We don't have time…we're low on fuel and..." Sam's eyes slid to the left, watching dizzily as a slow fog crept toward them. "Crap!" Sam stiffened. "Dean. We got incoming."

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered, letting go of his hold on Sam and gathering the weapons off the ground.

"Dude." Sam cocked his head. Standing in the shadows were two figures, the same two figures from the cabin. He turned to Dean. "I thought you flambéed one."

"Thought so, too," Dean snarled, dropping to one knee and firing both weapons, at both witches. "Not enough juice left," he muttered over the roar of flames.

"Obviously doesn't matter. Fire won't kill them." Sam stumbled back a step.

"What'll it take to end this bitch fest!" Dean growled his frustration over the wailing cry of the witches that slowly continued to encroach through the wall of fire. "I mean what the hell…"

"Dean." Something clicked inside Sam's brain. "Where do witches get their power from?" He took another tentative step back.

"I don't know." Dean rose from the ground as the flames sputtered, threatening to give out.

My best guesses... ruby red slippers, talking to their butt-ugly selves in a mirror." Both witches gasped fighting to get through the flames. "Take that you bitches. Toto in a chick's picnic basket." The flames died out, and Dean quickly gave the weapons a solid shake bringing the flamethrowers back to life, although weak." Dude, I have no friggin' ass clue…"

"Their guidebook, Dean…we have to burn their spell book."

"Oh, no." Dean continued to fire. "You don't know if they even have one or where."

"Oh, yes," Sam challenged, seeing the flamethrowers were about to become as useless as a plastic toy.

"Run. That's my official plan, Sam." Dean side glanced briefly at Sam never lowering the weapons as flames continued to erupt, holding the witches back. "When I say go," he shouted. "You make for the car. You got me, man?"

Sam nodded.

Dean turned back to engage the witches. Witch one and witch two lumbered closer, only slightly stunned by the flames. Their toad-like features, no longer masked by the shadows made Sam shiver. No way he was running to the Impala, leaving Dean behind with two failing weapons.

"Sorry," Sam said in a muted whisper, his own official plan settled upon.

Dean readied himself, falling into step in front of Sam. The witches were closing the distance, the fire from the flamethrowers hardly holding them at bay.

"Go, Sam!"

Sam didn't move.

Flamethrowers still sputtering, Dean turned to Sam, frowning. "I said, go!" He yelled louder, "Get the hell outta here!"

"Don't worry," Sam said. Decision final, he whirled, heading back toward the cabin.

"Sam! Fuck! Sam, stop! Shit!"

Dean's cursing faded as he ran, Sam's desperation to save his brother giving him the strength he was sure he didn't have.

* * *

Sam gasped as he ran back across the field towards the broken down cabin.

His head felt heavy, like an overstuffed pillow. He swore he could still hear Dean cussing and damning him six ways to dooms day. Maybe Dean was right. What the hell kind of concussed plan had Sam come up with. What the hell was he doing? Leaving Dean like that.

"Just hold out, Dean," he growled as he kept running toward the cabin to find the book, despite his own misgivings.

Sam's foot caught in a hole and he fell to his face. Spitting out grass and dirt, he ungracefully pushed back up. He wobbled dizzily, having a terrible time keeping his balance as the world around him waffled once again. Sam's eyesight blurred, the pain in his head and arm threatening to harness what was left of his stamina and drag him under.

"Keep going," he ground out to himself, his rubbery legs proceeding to follow his orders.

Dean was in trouble, that was all that was going through his head. Sam couldn't even be sure the spell book existed. And what if it did and it wasn't back at the cabin. What if he was wrong. He'd left Dean alone, with barely enough firepower left to start a campfire. Left him, not just with one, but two skanky wart-covered witches. Sam's panic was back, a whole new kind. The worst kind. Sam shoved panic aside, making his feet move faster. Whatever he did, he had to keep going. He had to concentrate on nothing but running, keeping his legs moving at top speed under him, keeping himself upright.

The cabin came into sight, and Sam barely put on the brakes as he stumbled through the broken doorway and skidded to a grunting halt inside. He hesitated only for a second before he started tearing through the room. There had to be a book and it had to be here. He was sure of it. Dean's life depended on that certainty. Sheer willpower kept Sam standing. Kept him searching for something that was little more than a hunter's hunch.

"Where is it!" Sam yelled. "Come on!" He fell to his knees pulling at a loose floorboard. Nothing but dust and spiders. "Gaaawd!" He drew in a deep breath, trying not to get sick. His brother was about to become biodegradation of the brotherly kind. "Crap!" Sam got to his feet and ran a hand down his face, ignoring the red-hot pain slicing through his injured arm.

He'd ditched his brother for this. The book had to be squirreled away somewhere in here. All witches had guidebooks. It was the source of their power, their existence. Sam stood stock-still, time out. His eyes wandered over the contents of the cabin. Think, think, think -- outside the box. He was not prepared to lose his brother. Not now. Not ever. He should never have left Dean -- exposed. Sam choked on his emotional turmoil his gaze landing on the cast iron stove. It'd be the last place anyone would hide a book, or important papers -- of course. In utter abandon, Sam rushed forward, dropping with a hard thud to his knees, and ripping open the stove's door. He jammed his hand inside, right off feeling a heavy leather bond book.

Sam gave up the breath he was holding. "Yes!" Quickly, he dug the matches from his jacket. One-handedly striking a match. The matchstick lit, only to quickly fizzle out. "Damn it." Soggy matches equaled a soggy Dean. That straight-jacket was back, tightening around his chest. Sam took a breath, closed his eyes. "Please." He held his breath as he tried another match. He opened his eyes to see the unstable firelight dancing in the breeze coming through the cabin's walls. "Easy..easy…gah," Sam cried out in pain as he was forced to use his broken arm. He gingerly cupped a trembling, blood covered hand around the fluttering flame. "Stay with me. Stay with me," Sam chanted as if the flame he was protecting was his brother's very life -- and it was.

He opened the book and lowered the flame carefully lighting a page. Sam didn't dare breathe, afraid the fire would die out before the book could burn. He hovered close, tending the fire, afraid to even think how bad this was going to be if his official plan didn't work.

The room was silent, save for the crackle of the black, shriveling pages of the witches book. Suddenly a loud bang and hot flames burst from the pages, jerking Sam backward and onto his ass. For one captivating, breathtaking moment, he sat as twinkling fog filled room. It appeared as if the words inside the book had leapt off the page and exploded into color, like a box of Trix inside a storm cloud. The cabin walls shook -- earth quake style-- the rainbow fog, literally, taking his breath away. Sam scrambled to his feet and staggered out the door. Everything seemed fuzzy around the edges, he choked and gasped, his stomach lurching and waves of nausea threatening to drop him.

Sam fought to stay standing, keeping his injured arm, once again, held close to his chest as he made his way, herky-jerky, back across the field. Burning the book was a big, fat 'maybe' of an idea. Hell, at least there was a book, although he'd have been surprised if there wasn't. As Sam faltered along, he scanned the landscape before him. Listening, searching, trying to sense what may have become of Dean and the witches. All he heard was his ragged breathing and groans of pain. A horrible picture became painted in his head. Dean's body, a bloody, gawd-awful smelling blob added to the compost pile. What if his brilliant plan hadn't worked? What if Dean had run out of fire-juice. What if burning the book was just -- stupid. Sam had left his brother alone, with no backup, face-to-face with not just one but two wicked witches to fight on his own. It was a showdown he doubted his brother could win. The thought scared the crap out of Sam, and he tried to make his feet move faster.

He blinked repeatedly trying to keep his eyes open, searching, listening, desperate to get back to Dean. The moon shown down bright, laying out the path before him. Sam followed the trail of trampled grass, back to where he'd left Dean, begging his feet to keep moving. The eerily silence that had held the area in its grip began to lift. Sounds of the night filled the air. Crickets chirped, a frog croaked, and the lonely cry of a Loon was answered by its mate, only seconds later. Still, the darkness around him made him feel alone, scared, cold.

Sam wanted to cry out for Dean, needed his brother to respond as quickly as the Loon's mate had.

He teetered off his feet, gripping his injured arm closely. "Dean," he called, but the word only came as a muffled whimper.

Five hundred feet ahead a figure suddenly appeared out of the shadows. The form stopped, hesitated a moment swaying off its feet, then continued forward, moving awkwardly toward him.

Sam never slowed, swiping at his eyes and trying to clear his vision. When he looked again the figure was gone. The darkness around Sam oozed into his soul. What if Dean was….

"Sammy!" Dean's voice floated out of the darkness. "Sam!" Dean appeared, spotlighted by the moon.

"Dean!" Sam's voice coming a tad stronger.

They hobbled toward each other, the distance between them shrinking quickly.

"I take it you found the book," Dean said as he approached.

"I take it the wicked witches are dead?" Sam came to stand directly in front of Dean.

"Undeniably and reliably dead," Dean deadpanned.

"You sure?" Sam questioned, cautiously.

"Poked 'em with a stick, dude." Dean grinned. "They're dead," he assured. "That was some theory you had there, Dorothy." Dean looked angrily.

"Was more of a maybe." Sam kept his voice low.

"Yeah, well, maybe next time you hold off the bitch fest while I burn the damn book." Dean wobbled.

"Dean, you okay?"

"Don't, 'Dean, are you okay', me, buddy boy! I'm fine. What have I told you about racing off alone to burn spell books, leaving your big brother to single-handedly entertain two ugly witches?"

"It's stupid." Sam quirked a half-smile.

"And?"

"And rude."

"Right." Dean waggled a stern finger in the air. "You ever do that again…my fist…" Dean balled his hand, shaking bare knuckles close to Sam's face. "Will clue you in on how rude… and… how stupid. I am so seriously pissed…"

"Wha'…Unnnhh!" The ground gave way and Sam's eyes rolled as he slumped forward good arm reaching out to drape over Dean's shoulders in a weak imitation of a bear hug.

"Whoa, there, Kansas." Dean pulled Sam closer to him

"You sure you're okay, Dean?" Sam breathed softly against Dean's neck.

"Samantha, that extra sensitive, chick fainting into my arms routine only worked when you were twelve."

"Gon…gonna have to come up with a new routine." Sam's arm slipped away from Dean's neck to hang limply at his sides, along with his broken one.

"Sam? Hey!" Dean gave him a little shake. "Sam!"

Sam tried to lift his head.. "Nnnnn," he groaned, easing closer to Dean, every tired muscle in his body quivering weakly.

"Want me to carry you?" Dean's hand gripped the back of his neck -- steadying him.

"Just - hold me a second," Sam rasped.

"Totally inappropriate, dude."

"You need mental help, Dean."

As inappropriate as Dean may have said it was, Sam noted big brother never let go his hold on him, gentle fingers rubbing up and down Sam's back.

"How we doin'?" Dean asked.

"I'm -- we're doin' fine."

"Attagirl." Dean smiled.

"Whatever," Sam mewed.

"You -- uh." Dean's fingers stilled against Sam's back. "Think you can walk?"

Sam shifted in Dean's arms. "I'm a big boy, Dean," he said, his head falling to rest on Dean's shoulder.

A long moment passed between them. Sam breathing raggedly, Dean holding him upright.

"Hey, big boy." Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder.

Sam pulled away, staring blankly.

"Bro?" Dean bent forward, searching Sam's face.

A beat.

"Feel like crap," Sam murmured.

Dean nodded. "Kind of figured. You're coming down off your adrenaline high." He lifted Sam's undamaged arm over his shoulder and started them walking. "And you're pretty chewed up."

Sam shuddered, his head was pounding faster than his heart, his arm burned, and his feet took on a life of their own, crisscrossing over one another.

"You're such a clown," Dean grumbled, hobbling next to Sam.

"You're such an ass." Sam glanced over. "What happen?" He gestured with his chin toward Dean's right leg.

"Don't worry about it." Dean tripped, nearly taking them both down to their knees before righting himself.

"You suck," Sam panted, his right boot heel dragging in the grass. He stumbled, his head drooping forward to touch his chest then snapping back up.

"Doing better at walking than you are." Dean hoisted Sam upward more firmly. "I'm doing most the work here, bro, 'case you hadn't noticed," Dean retorted.

Sam stiffened in annoyance. He could feel Dean teetering between worry and anger, the anger seemed to hold the winning edge, shooting daggers through Sam. Sure he'd saved the day, barely, but scared Dean didn't see that right now. Sam was on the verge of shoving Dean away, when he looked up and caught the playful smile spreading across his big brother's face.

"Gotcha. C'mon, little brother." Dean urged Sam on.

Sam tried not to show how bad off he was, tried to nonchalantly breathe through his nose and not pant like a dog out his mouth. He swiped the sweat off his cheek, staring at his fingertips, realizing the drops weren't sweat, but a fresh dribble of blood coming from the slice on his cheek.

"Uhhh." Sam's stomach twitched and flopped, like freshly hit road kill.

"Sam, just hold on to me." Dean grew tense beside him.

"Awkward." Sam winced.

"Idiot, just keep walking."

Sam leaned more and more of his weight into Dean.

"Sam, you're not only stupid, you're friggin' heavy, man," Dean said in a rough and angry tone. "I swear you ever play the desperate hero again and I'll …Dean paused."

"Shove me in a gym locker, Dean?"

"I'd never do that to you again, bro. But man, don't you ever do what you just did to me ever again or so help me." Dean let his words hang in the air.

Behind the anger, Sam could sense Dean's fear. His older brother's body shaking with the effort to keep them both moving through the tangle of grass. Sam had a horrible sinking sensation, his breathing came faster and he shivered hard.

"Wh-where's the car?" Sam asked, a hazy buzz in his ears.

"Few more yards. Think you can make it?" Dean was right next to him, why did his voice sound so far away?

"Yeah." Sam nodded, trying to see through the strange blotches swirling in front of him. He put one foot in front of the other. At least he thought he had, but instead one foot went right the other foot, left, in a strange game of Twister. "Guh," Sam groaned, trying to find some kind of stability, trying to call out to Dean but the name was mute in his throat.

His knees buckled and he started to go down.

"Son of a bitch." A strong pair of hands fumbled to grip his forearms holding him up. "Easy, pal, just take it easy. " Sam found himself staring into Dean's eyes, barely able to hear him.

"Changed my mind," Sam whispered.

"About what?" Dean frowned.

"Walking." Sam felt his eyes roll, sliding from Dean's grasp.

"Sammy!

Every thing after that -- was black.

* * *

**Epilogue:**

**Dedicated to my ol' friend, Shannanigans….who asked for some drugged up Sammy. Here you go, ol' friend. I enjoyed changing this around. Thank you for the suggestion.**

"Uhhh." The sound was like a wounded animal in his ears. Had that awful noise come from him?

"Hey, you comfortable enough?" A caring hand brushed through his hair. "Sam?"

"Where am I?"

"The hospital."

"The car?" Sam scowled.

"Bro, you're lying in a hospital bed. Open your damn eyes."

Sam scrunched his eyes closed tight.

"Wrong way, Sam. Open your eyes… right now!"

"Mmmm."

Someone physically thumbed his right eye open and he was forced to stare into morning's bright light. "Come on, Sammy."

"Aahaahh!" Sam batted at the annoying light or was that a hand. "Uggh. Please stop," Sam groaned. The back seat of the car was always way better than any motel bed Sam had ever slept on, but right now the comforting seats didn't ease his pain. Sam's jaw clenched. "Ahh." He shifted onto his side, grunting when a sharp stab shot through his right arm.

"Take it slow." A quiet voice above him drew his eyes up.

Dean was staring down at him with a smile on his face.

"Where are we?" Sam wiggled uncomfortably.

"Dude, you have the attention span of a goldfish." Dean's smile faded. "We're in the hospital. Bad food, bossy nurses, funny smells, and don't try to get up." Dean gentled a hand to Sam's chest stopping his wiggling. "You've got one of those cheap paper napkin gowns on and I don't want to see all your goodies hanging out everywhere." Dean made a very ugly 'Dean' face. "I'll be scared for life."

"Hospital?" Sam wrinkled his nose, still hearing the beep-beep, varoom-varoom of the car.

"Need you with me, Sam."

"I'm awake now," Sam garbled.

"Being awakes, good, bro," Dean gave a light laugh. "You had to have surgery on your arm. Was a good break. Gotta wear that cast for eight weeks, maybe longer."

Sam peered down at the heavy, white cast. "I see…I heard…wait, no."

You sure you're feeling okay?"

"Yes."

Dean leaned further forward, staring "No. No, you're not."

"How do you know?" Dean reached up and flicked the overhead light on.

"Are you kidding?" Sam raised a hand. "Owe, hurts my eyes. Stop that."

"You look like crap, Sam."

"Don't look at me, then." Sam blinked owlishly.

"I mean, you have that color, Sam." Dean shut the light off.

"What color?" Sam's hand fell limp to his side.

"Pitiful."

"That's not a color, Dean."

"It is now. You look like you're about to pull a Linda Blair.

"You're a big jerk."

"You should be used to that by now." Dean shoved a little basin under Sam's mouth.

"That ashtray is not going to be big enou…Dean, move!" Sam scrambled to sit up. "Gonna throw…Agghh!" He rolled sideways, head hung low, yellow water splattering from his mouth to the floorboard.

"D'n." Sam panted trying to catch his breath. "I'll…I'll clean the car." Sam tried to move.

"Don't move." Dean clasped his shoulder and held tight, offering Sam nothing but comfort. "You'll be okay. Let me know when you're done." Dean paused. "It's just the drugs, Linda." His hand gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

A few gags and coughs later. "Done," Sam breathed. "Dean." He swiped his mouth clean, gripping Dean's arm frantically. "You're not…not going to inflict bodily injury are you?"

"Why?." Dean frowned.

"Not…" Sam took in a breath. "N-not going to say, I told you so?"

"No, Sammy."

"Call me a whiny bitch?"

"No."

"Rant?"

"No."

"Rave?"

"No."

"Cry blood and tears?"

"Hell, no."

"Thanks," Sam muttered, flopping to his back and smiling up at Dean.

"Sam, you do understand…we are in the hospital right, buddy?"

"Hahahaha," Sam laughed. "No, we're in the car."

"No, you are in the hospital and my ass is tired of sitting in this hard, plastic chair."

"No, your ass is sitting behind the wheel…driving."

"Sam, you burned the book, the witches are dead. Your arm was broke and your face and head busted up. You had surgery. The doctor's swabbed and sutured you. You're in the hospital," Dean repeated. "Look around. Is any of this making sense to you?"

Sam glanced all around. "Yup," he chimed. "That was the exit you wanted, Dean, you better turn around."

Dean leaned in close over Sam. "Bro, you are so doped up."

"Drugs are good." Sam swung his cast upward, glancing a blow off Dean's chin.

"Owe, damn it, Sam, that hurt." Dean rubbed his chin.

Sam stopped laughing. "Sorry. Dean, I'm sorry. Want me to drive? I can drive. You're hurt…lemme…lemme drive."

Dean sighed, "Sure, pal. Can you scoot over?"

"Uh-huh." Sam inched over, and Dean sat next to him. "Uggg." Sam's head dipped down to rest on Dean's chest and he closed his eyes.

"Hey, man, thought you wanted to drive."

"Too weak to drive," Sam said groggily.

"You okay?"

"Ouchy on my arm."

"Try to go to sleep." Dean smoothed a hand through Sam's hair.

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Pink Floyd… blaring in my ears."

"Fine. I'll turn the radio down."

"Dean." Sam creaked open one eye. "I may be doped up, but I'm still smart enough to know we're in a hospital." Sam lazily let his eye fall shut.

"All right," Dean huffed. "You know what, smart ass, you just lost driving privileges for a week. You got me?" No answer. "Sam, you got that?" Still no answer. "Sam, no driving privileges for…"

"Shhhh...Sammy's sleeping."

"Aw, dude."

The end


End file.
